


I O U

by Okamidragon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Gen, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 17:23:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6667654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Okamidragon/pseuds/Okamidragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a receiving a mysterious note, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson find themselves on another case. Though when the victim of this new crime is someone close to home, the great detective and his loyal companion must pull out all the stops to get to the bottom of this mystery and make sure no one else gets hurt in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I O U

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. He knelt down and with shaking hands picked up the piece of paper that had been cast away on the floor. He ran his fingers gently over the surface, taking particular notice of the jagged edges from where it had been ripped away from a whole piece, and stopped over the lipstick imprint left behind. “Meet me where you first met me,” he read in a whisper. He raised his light blue eyes and stared out over the rest of the crime scene, it was oddly empty, save for a body that was lying in the middle of the floor. Cold, lifeless, a shell of the woman he used to know.   
He gave a heavy sigh and slowly made his way forward, stopping by the glass top coffee table, and looked down on the body. The skin was a ghostly pale that had been preserved by the dramatically cold temperatures that had taken over the room. A look at the thermostat next to the door, told him that it was nearly thirty degrees. His arms were covered in goosebumps causing the hairs to stand straight up. It took a lot to shake his system. Cold, he could manage. Death he could look past….but the victim of the crime….it tore him apart and it made it hard to focus.   
“Are you alright? Perhaps we should get someone else on the job?” A calm voice shattered the silence.   
The detective tore his gaze away from the dead body and focused on the officer who had spoken to him. The man appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties. He had a head full of graying hair and gentle brown eyes. His black suit jacket was unbuttoned and revealed the white dress shirt underneath that tugged around his muscular biceps. He was an average height and of average intelligence. This man was always the one who searched out his help…and now, this officer was doubting him. “No…I’m fine,” the detective answered slowly, not meeting the officer’s concerned gaze.   
“I can always call Anderson, he could look at the body for us and tell us the details, and then you could take the case from there.”  
“No,” the detective answered shortly shaking his head. “Anderson is incompetent and the last thing I need is flawed data.” He kept his voice steady, but there was a hint of anger and mistrust in his tone.   
“Anderson isn’t a complete fool Sherlock,” the officer sighed, “no matter how much you try to paint him out to be.” He gave the detective a critical look and was met with Sherlock’s usual rolling of the eyes before he knelt down to inspect the body.  
“I would rather not take that risk,” he finally answered, pulling a small magnifying glass out of his pocket and began inspecting the victim’s delicate hands. They were clean, pale, and soft from years of care. The nails were painted a bright shade of red and there were no visible signs of a struggle. Sherlock carefully picked up one of her hands, feeling that weight of it. He traced the outline of her hand in an attempt to pick out anything unusual. He took a moment to remember the little game they shared, over a small cellphone, the one that held deadly secrets and her lifeline. He knew that day that she could have bested him but she didn’t. But the thought that she could…. It had given him a strange sense of excitement and attachment, one he had only felt once, with John. Though that feeling…that feeling had a life of its own, one that separated itself from his relationship with John. He felt a strange sense of sadness wash over him and it caused his usually stoic façade to waver as his mouth drew downwards in a frown and his eyes began to water.   
This didn’t go unnoticed by the officer. “Sherlock….are you sure you are going to be alright,” the officer asked again, his voice was so quiet that Sherlock barely heard him.   
“It’s just the strong smell,” Sherlock muttered, not taking his eyes away from his work. He moved his attention from the victim’s hands to the victim’s dress. It was very short and the black material hugged every curve that she had. She was wearing red heels to match her nails. A smirk pulled at Sherlock’s lips as memories started to fly through his mind about the first time he met her. She had been the only one to completely take him by surprise, render him speechless. He shook his head, clearing the memories from his thoughts. This isn’t the time. He ran his hand over her dress, feeling the softness of the cotton on his fingers. His fingers stopped on a rough spot, where it had appeared the dress had been torn and patched up. “Hmm,” Sherlock hummed. He messed with the patching some more, feeling a slight lump through the fabric. He reached into his small tool kit and took out a pair of tiny scissors. He then began to cut the stitching. Once the hole in the fabric was big enough, he was able to force the object out of its hiding place. He looked at the small flash drive curiously and rotated it in his hand, the logo of the drive had been scraped away but otherwise looked brand new.   
“What is it?” Lestrade questioned. He knelt down to get a closer look at the body.  
“I’m not certain yet,” Sherlock answered, quickly sliding the flash drive into his pocket and then moving his eyes over to the face. Her eyes remained opened and hauntingly glassy. He put away his magnifying glass and just stared at her face. Taking in the faded red lipstick, her long dark brown hair that was shaped into soft curls that now surrounded her body like dying rose petals, and the defiant expression left behind on her face. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in, then opened them again, forcing himself to look past what his eyes initially saw. There was a puddle of puke, spit, and mucus around her face, that was a mixture of a dark purple with hints of vile green. Sherlock fished into his deep jacket pockets and pulled out a pair of gloves and a vile. He put the gloves on and took the vile, carefully scooping the vomit from the floor into it. He placed a corked top on the vile and put it into his pocket, and then stood up. His eyes remained on the victim.   
Lestrade sighed as he stood. He could feel his companion’s pain, even if he wouldn’t verbally share it. He wasn’t used to Sherlock being this quiet. He was usually so loud and full with smart remarks and boasting about his own analytical powers, but now. Now, the man was silent. Lost in his own thoughts, trying to pull away the ties that bound him to the life of the victim and allow him to see the case in his usual detached way.   
“I am going to take this by Bart’s” Sherlock said abruptly tearing his eyes away from the victim, “perhaps Molly can tell me if there is any poison in it…that seems to be the cause of this death.”  
“Poison?” Lestrade asked, “I guess that would make sense seeing as there is no sign of a physical struggle.”  
Sherlock nodded, “is there anything else of importance that you happened to leave out?”  
Lestrade scratched the back of his head as he thought, his eyes lighting up as he swiftly turned around and headed over to a small desk where there were two more plastic bags with evidence. “We found these….but I wasn’t sure what to make of them,” he said, his baritone voice echoing off of the walls.   
Sherlock removed the latex gloves from his hands and shoved them into his pockets before he walked over to Lestrade. The officer handed over the two bags and watched as the world’s only consulting detective opened them and pulled out the contents. The first, was a drawing on a back of a notebook of a family, a father, a mother, a son, and a daughter, who was oddly separated from the rest of the family. There was also a strange shadowy figure next to the girl, which seemed to be scaring her, by the expression drawn on the face.   
“Mrs. Adler,” Lestrade began awkwardly, “she didn’t seem like the one to raise a family…do you know if she had one?”  
Sherlock shook his head, “with her line of work, raising a family would be extremely difficult.”  
The officer nodded then a confused expression came over his face, “exactly what was her line of work?”  
Sherlock didn’t answer he just switched his attention to the next piece of evidence, which was a silver heart pendant with the name Turk inscribed on the front. “Do you mind if I hold onto these pieces of evidence?”  
“No,” Lestrade answered, “if it will help you help us, then by all means take it, but I need it back once you’re done with it.”  
“Thank you, Inspector,” Sherlock said as he slipped the evidence back into their bags. “I will text you when I have results,” he said and then walked out of the room, leaving Lestrade alone with the woman. 

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“Sherlock, I have been texting you all day and you haven’t been answered once. Is everything alright?” A familiar voice broke the detective’s concentration.   
Sherlock briefly looked up from the microscope and at the man who had just walked in. Standing in the door way was Dr. John Watson, Sherlock’s only admitted friend and faithful blogger. The detective looked away and focused back on the microscope. “Sorry John, I am working on a case.”  
“A case?” John said, and walked over to him, “it seems I always miss the fun stuff when I am away.”  
Sherlock didn’t answer, he just continued with his work, turning the nob on the microscope to get a clearer picture of the slide. There was a mixture of different cells that had tiny black dots speckled in them. The detective wrote down something in a notebook next to him while continuing to study the slide.  
“So, what interesting chemical are you looking at this time,” John asked as he walked over to his companion and took a seat beside him.   
“It’s not chemicals,” Sherlock murmured as he made another note.  
John blinked then looked at him, “then what is it?”  
“Vomit,” the detective answered flatly.  
“Vomit,” John said slowly, he gave a slight cringe. “Sounds like one of your crazy experiments.”  
Sherlock chuckled, how had he scared John throughout the years with the various things he would bring in the house for his experiments. Severed heads, thumbs, and eye balls (which Sergeant Donovan ruined when she dropped them during the fake drug bust at his flat,) the list continued on, but Sherlock didn’t have time to reflect on them, this case demanded his attention, and his mind hungered for the work.   
“The victim had no sign of trauma on her, which tells me that there was no physical struggle. Her murderer most likely used poison and her body’s natural ejection of fluids will help me prove that. Besides, it was an odd color which also tells me that something else is at play.”  
“It could have been a suicide? Since you said there was no sign of a struggle.”  
Sherlock shook his head, “no, that would be going against her nature.”  
John nodded then stopped, his eyes narrowed as he tried to piece together the information that his companion had given him, but he was met with only more questions. “Sherlock, you said that suicide would go against her nature.”  
“Yes.”  
“Who exactly is the victim and how do you know her?”  
Sherlock abruptly stood up and walked over to a machine that had just started beeping on the far side of the room. John watched as he went, curiously noting the unusual opening and closing of his hands when he stopped at the machine, as if he was trying to force himself to focus. “You knew her too, John,” he said as he took a piece of paper that printed out, he looked at the results, his eyes widening. A deranged smile coming across his sharp features.   
“I’m sorry, who was she?” John questioned, “I’m not sure who you are speaking of.”  
Sherlock didn’t seem to catch John’s question, instead he ran over to John and handed him the paper, “look, I was right.” His voice was hurried and excited, drastically changing from the quiet mood he was in earlier,“I knew it couldn’t have been suicide and I knew it was poison,” he watched as John’s eyes ran over the paper and delighting in the empty expression on his face. “Don’t you see, it was in her tea?!”   
“Tea?” John repeated, pursing his lips and then he shook his head. “Nope, you lost me. I have no idea what you are talking about.”  
Sherlock blinked and then sighed, “Right, you weren’t with me at the crime scene.”  
“I wasn’t,” John confirmed, nodding his head, “some background knowledge would be much appreciated.”  
Sherlock looked away from John and towards one of the walls that had a cork board, where he had tacked up the drawing and the necklace. His eyes narrowed and he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small envelope which had his address on it, 221B Baker Street. He opened the envelope and pulled out a letter and handed it to John.   
The veteran took the letter and with curious eyes scanned its content, though there wasn’t much to go off of. “I O U.” He read aloud then his eyes traced the thin line that came from the u to the bottom of the letter, where the initials J.M. were signed.   
“Moriarty,” John said quietly. Looking up at Sherlock, his heart began to race as his mind recalled the unbearably stressful situation that this man had put them in only a few months ago. Alone at a public indoor swimming pool that had been closed for the night, the two brilliant masterminds of England, Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty faced off, with the loser's lives at stake. John, himself had been part of this little game that Moriarty had set up, a jacket full of dynamite had been planted on him, and Moriarty held the switch. One wrong move spelled doom for all three of them.   
John took in a deep breath to calm himself, his eyes resting on his friend’s. If it wasn’t for Sherlock’s unwavering courage that night, John might have been driven to madness, with death knocking so close on his door yet again. It was thanks to a phone call which changed the plans of the deranged consulting criminal, Jim Moriarty, which allowed them to walk out of there unscathed. Though he promised to return and now he was making his presence known.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading the first chapter if IOU. This is a piece that I wrote during my creative writing class and I decided to revisit it. The next chapter will be out shortly but in the meantime, you can check out my other work/works or continue reading the other fantastic works on this site! If you have any comments, questions, concerns, or recipes, just let me know in the comments or just send me a private message. Until the next time, happy reading and writing! Okamidragon out!


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